


A Good Look on You

by Teeelsie



Series: Clint Barton Bingo [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winterhawk - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mandatory Fun Day, Oblivious Clint Barton, Protective Bucky Barnes, Schmoop, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 17:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20085853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teeelsie/pseuds/Teeelsie
Summary: Bucky makes a rude noise as he unzips Clint’s tac jacket and reveals the bruises and welts along his ribcage.  “Jeez, Barton, what’d you get into this time?”“Eh, nothing too serious.”  Clint tugs his arms out of the sleeves and hisses as his injuries pull and burn from the movement.  Barnes’ eyes skim down Clint’s arms to his wrists, but he reserves comment.Bucky gently rotates Clint around and scoffs when he sees the additional bruising on his back.  “I sometimes wonder what exactly ‘serious’ would look like to you.”“Compound fracture, punctured lung, bullet hole with no exit wound—”





	A Good Look on You

**Author's Note:**

> I finally managed to produce something for the WinterHawk Mandatory Fun Day! (for the yummy prompt photo below): 
> 
> IDK how you writers who crank out a fic every week do it. This was super rushed, so it's not beta'd and rougher than I like, but a deadline is a deadline. 
> 
> This is a three for one! It also fills the "Rope Burns" square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card, and the "Clint/Bucky" square on my Clint Barton Bingo card.

Clint stumbles a little as he pushes into his apartment. He shuts the door behind himself and sags against it, letting out a bone-deep sigh. He hurts in more places than he can count and he’s so tired that he contemplates just sliding down the door and sleeping right here. The only thing keeping him from doing it is knowing that an actual bed is just thirty feet away.

As he’d entered the Tower, he’d seen a group of elegantly dressed people, followed by a gaggle of paparazzi snapping pictures and shouting questions. He had a vague recollection that Stark had some sort of charity event going on in the penthouse. Pepper had asked all of the Avengers to attend to increase the cache of the event and Clint had grudgingly agreed, but then Fury sent him on a last-minute assignment to Estonia. He was back earlier than planned, and while he suspected that Tony might find it amusing to have a filthy, bloody, assassin show up at the party, he’d never do that to Pepper. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass her, so he skirted through the service door and made his way to the freight elevator at the back of the building. Unfortunately, that meant he had to walk a hell of a lot further to get to the elevator, and then to get from it, to his apartment.

The same biometric lock that had scanned his body and opened the door, now clicks it locked again. He drops his gear bag off of his shoulder and it lands with a dull thud. He doesn’t bother to stow it in the closet where it usually resides; he’ll deal with it later. Jarvis automatically brings the lights up and Clint squeezes his eyes shut as he makes an undignified sound. “Shit, can you—” He brings a hand up to cover his eyes because if he doesn’t, he’s pretty sure his brain is going to ooze out of his skull. “Can you dim the lights, buddy?” he asks. Or possibly whimpers.

“Of course, Agent Barton,” Jarvis says, congenial as ever but possibly more softly than usual. When Clint dares to crack his eyes open again, the lights have been taken down to a more manageable, warm glow.

“Thanks,” he rasps before toeing off his boots. He stands for a moment, swaying slightly until he reaches out to rest one hand against the door to steady himself. He alternately eyes the kitchen and the door to his bedroom. He’s pretty sure there’s leftover something in the fridge that probably shouldn't be eaten but he's willing to chance it since it’s been a solid 30 hours since he’s had anything more than a protein bar. But through the bedroom is the bathroom and the shower, which might make him feel human again. He’s not sure how long he stands there before he decides to go for the shower, mostly because he doesn’t actually think he has it in him to accomplish both, and he’d rather wake up clean and voraciously hungry fifteen hours from now, than filthy and only mildly hungry. At the moment, after ten days of living rough, a clean body in clean sheets sounds like a little slice of heaven to Clint.

When he shuffles into his bedroom, a small movement in the bathroom catches his eye, and ignoring the protests of every muscle in his body, Clint grabs a bow from the corner and has an arrow nocked and pointed in less than two seconds.

The person freezes and Clint's subconscious seems to identify that there's no threat. He blinks and stares. “What… _what?_” He looks around, wondering if he’s somehow stumbled into the wrong apartment. They’re all pretty much laid out the same, but, no, it’s definitely his stuff all around him, not least of which being the bow that had been within easy reach. What he doesn’t recognize – at least at first – is the man in a suit sitting on the closed toilet with a drink in his hand. Eventually, Clint’s sluggish brain registers something familiar about him; if it weren't for the short hair and what looks like a bespoke suit, he'd think it was Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky says.

And, okay, yes, that is definitely Barnes' voice. “What are you doing in my bathroom? And what the hell _happened_ to you?” Clint drops his arms and sets the bow on the dresser next to him.

Bucky looks him over from head to toe, then stands up, setting his drink on the vanity. The ice in the glass clinks softly. “I could ask the same. Aren’t you supposed to be in Latvia?” 

“Estonia. Mission ended kind of suddenly,” Clint answers, gesturing vaguely and shuffling further into the bathroom.

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, I can see that.” He steps close, taking Clint’s jaw carefully in his hand and tipping his head. Clint knows he’s trying to get a closer look at the cut at his hairline.

“’S alright,” he slurs, “it doesn’t need stiches.” Clint had tried to clean it up a little in the small, dark hole of a bathroom on the quinjet, but a glance in the mirror tells him he didn’t do a very thorough job of it; the hair on the left side of his head is still more or less completely matted in dried blood.

“Says you,” Bucky sighs, then opens the small closet and pulls out what Clint calls his first aid kit, but what Bucky mockingly calls his ‘portable hospital’.

Clint just grunts. He can’t quite remember when it became a thing for Bucky to appear seemingly out of nowhere to patch him up when he got a little banged around on a SHIELD mission. He knows the first time Barnes had helped him out was shortly after he’d come in and joined the Avengers and they’d all set about taking down the last of the Hydra cells. The two of them had kept their distance from one another in the first few weeks, both wary and seeing too much of their own haunted past in the other. If he’s honest, Clint also didn’t want to get too close to Barnes because he didn’t want people to start comparing their skillsets and realize that there was a redundancy there, and that Clint was obviously the less desirable version.

But one day, after a fight with a group of particularly tenacious Hydra hold-outs, Clint had secreted himself away in one of the medical labs of the bunker while the others worked their way through the place looking for information about other potential strongholds. He had gingerly pulled one arm out of his combat gear and was trying to get a better look at the bullet graze in his side, when Barnes silently materialized.

He’d stood in the doorway, staring. “You’re bleeding,” he said eventually.

“And you’re exceptionally observant,” Clint had snarked back. He thought about slipping his tac vest back on but he didn’t want to give Barnes the satisfaction of knowing he’d upset Clint’s plans, so he continued on, turning to root around in the drawers for some supplies that might help.

“There are paramedics down the road.”

“I can take care of it. I don’t need to bother them with it.”

Barnes studied him for a moment. “You’re not going to tell the others, are you?”

“Wasn’t planning on it, no.” Clint slammed a drawer closed in frustration - none of them held anything useful - and twisted his torso to get a better look at the wound. Blood oozed sluggishly from his side.

Barnes took a couple quick steps forward, and in an instant, Clint had pulled a pistol from behind his back and was pointing it at him.

Barnes stopped and cocked his head. “What do you think I’m going to do to you?” He sounded more curious than anything and he didn't seem at all worried that Clint would shoot him. Clint didn’t answer and Barnes flicked his gaze from Clint’s face to the hand holding his gun. To Clint’s utter humiliation, his arm was visibly shaking. “I think maybe you should sit down,” Barnes had said evenly, still watching but not moving any closer.

Their stand-off lasted just long enough for Clint to calculate how successful he’d be in in a one-on-one fight with the Winter Soldier. It only took a couple of seconds to come up with ‘not very.’ Resigned, he set the gun down and silently leaned against the exam table. Barnes crossed to a cabinet in the corner and used his metal hand to rip open the lock. A moment later he was beside Clint with an armful of medical supplies.

“This would probably be easiest if you lie down,” he gestured with his head to the exam table. Clint glanced behind him at it and then back at Barnes but didn’t move. “Look, I figure we’ve got about ten minutes before Steve makes it down to this sublevel looking for us. I can take care of that for you in seven if you lie back and let me.”

Clint sighed but grudgingly laid down. Barnes’ work was skilled and mechanical. He slapped some gloves on, disinfected the wound (Clint tried – unsuccessfully - to hold back the hiss of pain), swabbed on a topical anesthetic, then proceeded to put seventeen neat sutures into Clint’s side.

“Thanks,” he muttered as Barnes helped him sit up before he placed a clean bandage over the wound and started wrapping gauze around Clint’s torso. “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

Barnes flicked his eyes uneasily up to Clint’s, then back down to his hands. He took a long moment before he murmured, “Hydra was never pleased if I got injured. I learned to take care of things myself. It was better than being punished for the sin of carelessness.” Bucky continued to carefully wrap the gauze. “What did SHIELD ever do to you that you don’t want to tell them about your injuries?”

“Nothing.” he answered, then forcibly pushed down the memories of foster homes and supposed mentors who had no sympathy or patience for an injured kid. It had almost been worse when he’d joined SHIELD and every scrape or bruise had Coulson dragging him to medical. He hated the sympathetic looks they gave him; it didn’t sit right and made him feel itchy under his skin. “It’s an old habit. Hard to break, I guess.” He shrugged. When Barnes eyed him critically, he added, “Look, I don’t have a death-wish, and I know when I need actual medical care. But if I don’t, I prefer to take care of things myself, okay? And I’d appreciate it if you’d just keep this between us.”

Barnes studied his face for a moment. “Sure,” he said, then helped ease Clint’s arm back into his tac vest and gave Clint a damp cloth to wipe the blood from the inside of his arm where he’d previously been pressing against the wound. “We should probably go. They’ll be looking for us soon.” With that, Barnes turned and left Clint alone in the room.

Clint stared after him, unsure what to make of the whole thing. His thoughts were interrupted a few seconds later by approaching voices. He lifted his arm a few inches to inspected the visible damage; against the black material of his tac gear, the blood was barely visible and he knew he’d be able to keep himself strategically turned to avoid questioning eyes. He hopped off the table, picked up his bow, and made his way to meet the rest of the team.

Clint figured that was the end of it, but the next time he’d gotten a few inconveniently-placed scrapes on his back, Barnes had followed him out of the elevator on Clint’s floor after they’d gotten back to the Tower. Clint stopped and turned toward him. “Something I can do for you?”

Bucky looked back placidly. “I was thinking more the other way around. You're probably you’re going to need some help cleaning those abrasions on your back. Unless you’ve got some sort of octopus arms that can reach back there.”

Clint narrowed his eyes. “How did you…?” he started, then decided it didn’t matter. He waved Barnes after himself down the hall. “Fine. Yeah. I could probably use a hand.”

It was the start of a beautiful - if one-sided - relationship, at least as far as Clint was concerned. Barnes had enough medical knowledge to take care of most of Clint’s field-related injuries, and when he didn’t, he was pigheaded enough to bully Clint down to medical. Nine times out of ten, Clint knew he should be going there anyway, but it didn't hurt to have Barnes' extra push. What he didn't understand was what Barnes got out of it. 

Now, whenever Clint went out on SHIELD business – which Barnes was never a part of - Bucky inevitably showed up at Clint’s door within 15 minutes of his return to make sure Clint was still in one piece. He wasn’t always. After one particularly bad mission when Clint had passed out from a combination of exhaustion and dehydration, Bucky had had to kick in the door, finding Clint bleeding on the bathroom floor from where he’d hit his head on the sink on the way down. After that, it seemed to make sense to have Jarvis program Barnes’ biometrics into his lock so he wouldn’t need to destroy the door frame the next time.

Which, Clint supposed, explained how Bucky got into his apartment this time, but not why he’d been sitting in Clint’s dark bathroom, in a suit, with a stiff drink in his hand.

Clint yawns deeply, then asks, “So, what’re you doing here?”

“Sorry. Party wasn't really my thing and I didn’t expect you back so soon. I didn’t think you’d mind if I used your place for a while.” As he says it, he starts to gently undo the buckles on Clint’s tac jacket.

“I don’t.”

Bucky makes a rude noise when he unzips Clint’s jacket, revealing the bruises and welts along his ribcage. “Jeez, Barton, what’d you get into this time?”

“Eh, nothing too serious.” Clint tugs his arms out of the sleeves and hisses as his injuries pull and burn from the movement. Barnes’ eyes skim down Clint’s arms to his wrists, but he reserves comment.

Bucky gently rotates Clint around and scoffs when he sees the additional bruising on his back. “I sometimes wonder what exactly ‘serious’ would look like to you.”

“Compound fracture, punctured lung, bullet hole with no exit wound—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Bucky laughs, then unbuttons Clint’s pants and slides them perfunctorily down his legs. Clint steps out of them, leaving him in only his boxer-briefs. Bucky moves over to the shower and turns it on. “Shower, and then I’ll take care of—” he waves his hand toward Clint’s body, “—this.”

Clint grunts and does as he’s told as Bucky slips out of the room and closes the door. About ten minutes later, when he starts to feel lightheaded from the steam and the heat and lack of nutrients, he fumbles with the faucet and manages to turn off the shower. He steps out to find a pair of clean boxer-briefs and a steaming cup of beef broth on the counter. It smells amazing and when he takes a sip, the salty flavor bursts on his tongue. He groans and has to force himself to sip slowly, afraid his stomach will rebel if he gulps it too fast. It barely puts a dent in his hunger, but it’s enough to dampen the angry noises his stomach had been making.

Barnes appears a minute later without his suit jacket on, and with some sort of sandwich wrap. It's loaded with chicken and veggies that he must have gotten somewhere else because Clint’s positive he had none of those ingredients in his own kitchen. His stomach growls audibly at the sight of the food and Barnes passes it to him. He can eat it one-handed while Bucky fusses. Clint hums appreciatively. 

“Sit,” Bucky says, pointing to the closed toilet where he’d been sitting earlier, then opens the first aid kit. He rolls his cuffs a couple of times and works a pair of nitrile gloves onto his hands. He starts with the cut on Clint’s forehead.

“Like I said, it doesn’t need stitches.”

“And like I said, says you.” He physically tilts Clint’s head to get a better look, then pokes at the cut a little. Clint grunts and jerks his head away reflexively. “Sorry,” Bucky says, apologetic eyes flicking momentarily to Clint's. He scrutinizes the wound a little more, and in the end, when he pulls out some butterfly bandages instead of the suture kit, Clint smirks up at him. Bucky rolls his eyes.

They’re quiet for a moment while Clint lets Bucky concentrate on the close work. As he finishes, he ghosts his thumb over the bruised swelling on the left side of Clint face and sighs. The intimate gesture makes Clint blink. "So," he says, clearing his throat, "short hair, huh?" Bucky grimaces a little, running a hand self-consciously through his close-cropped hair. Clint quickly adds, “Not that it’s bad. I mean, you look good." 

Clint's so tired that he doesn't even think about how that might have sounded until he sees what looks like a creeping blush along Bucky's hairline. "Uh, I mean, you know. For you."

Bucky's snorts and digs around in the bin until he finds antibiotic ointment and a roll of soft white gauze.

"So what's with the new look?"

Bucky sighs, pulling out some cotton swabs. “Steve decided I must be lonely so he set me up on a blind date. Stark decided I needed new clothes so he brought his tailor in, and then Pepper decided I needed a new look to go with the suit, so she sent me to Stark's barber.”

A small alarm goes off in Clint’s brain; he's of the opinion that Barnes has probably had enough of people deciding things for him. “Yeah? What did you decide?” he asks as he extends his right arm into Bucky's gentle hands.

Bucky flicks his eye's to Clint's for a second and grins. “I decided I needed a stiff drink and to get the hell out of there. Figured your bathroom would be about the last place Steve would look for me. Sorry to use your space without asking.” As he says it, he delicately rotates Clint’s arm to inspect his wrist, top and bottom.

“I don’t mind,” he says, then gulps in another huge yawn. 

“Thanks,” Bucky answers, and then uses a cotton swab to carefully apply ointment to the rope friction-burns that encircle Clint’s wrist. When he finishes, he wraps it loosely with white gauze. Clint extends the other arm for Bucky to do the same with it, and it’s quiet in the bathroom for a couple of minutes while he works. Clint takes a small bite of the wrap, trying to avoid his bruised jaw sparking up too much; it’s a losing battle. The wrap is surprisingly good, but even the liver and onions the nuns would feed them in the orphanage sounds good to him right now, so he's not sure he's entirely objective at the moment.

As he eats and Barnes works, Clint skates his gaze over Bucky. When he finishes tending to Clint’s wrists, Clint swallows the mouthful and says, “So, blind date, huh? How did Steve manage to find a willing taker?”

“Funny,” Barnes says distractedly as he squats down and studies the bruises and abrasions on Clint's front, then stands and leans over to get a better look at the ones on his back. It catches Clint off guard when Barnes' warm hand is suddenly on him, skimming gentle fingers across one of his bruised ribs. Clint inhales sharply, causing his ribs to protest. He groans a little and grimaces. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says again, worried eyes tracking Clint's expression. Clint waves him off but Bucky continues to scrutinize him before straightening up and looking thoughful. “Whaddaya think? You want me to wrap the ribs?”

Clint shakes his head. “Nah. Makes it harder to breathe. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Let me get some antiseptic on the abrasions, though.”

Clint grunts and takes another bite, chewing slowly on the right side since a couple of the teeth on the left feel like maybe they are loose.

“Clint,” Bucky says few moments later. Clint tips his head upward to look at Barnes who’s watching him with a bemused expression. “Swallow.”

Clint blinks and then tongues the lump of food in his mouth and then does indeed swallow it down. He must have zoned out there for a minute.

Bucky huffs. “Come on, Sunshine, let’s get you to bed.” He extends his arm and Clint grips his hand for Bucky to pull him up.

Clint hobbles through to the bedroom to see that Bucky’s already pulled back the blankets and sheet so Clint has to expend minimal effort getting in. He sits, and is about to try to lie down when Bucky says, “Wait. Not yet. Here.” He hands Clint a few small brown pills and a bottle of water.

Clint doesn’t waste any time throwing them back and guzzling half of the water. Bucky takes the bottle from Clint, who very slowly, eases himself onto his right side since more of his bruises are concentrated on his left. “Why’re you here?” he mumbles, trying to keep his eyes open and focused on Bucky.

“I told you. Party’s not really my thing.”

Clint shakes his head minutely, glorying in the softness of the pillow at the same time he says, “No, why are you _here_? Why are you _always_ here? Doing this.”

Bucky’s face blanks momentarily and then morphs into something that looks unfamiliar. “Somebody has to take care of your sorry ass,” he answers with a soft smile.

The answer rings hollow, but he’s too tired to give it any more thought. Clint sighs into the pillow and closes his eyes.

“I’ll be out in the other room. If you need anything, holler.” Clint grunts in response and then he feels Bucky tug the sheet and thin blanket up and tuck it gently around his shoulders.

He’s just about asleep but then he forces his eyes open again. “Hey, Buck?” Bucky turns from where he’s got his hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for…” For what? Caring enough to check and see if he’s okay? Patching him up time and time again? Never telling Steve? Or looking at Clint with pity? All of that and more, Clint decides, but he doesn’t have the energy to say it. He finally settles on the easy answer. “For taking care of my sorry ass.”

“Anytime, Barton,” he says and gives Clint a smile that looks strangely wistful. “Get some sleep, Sunshine,” he murmurs just before he closes the door quietly behind himself.

* * *

Clint wakes up to a mid-day sun visible out his window and can’t stop himself from groaning at how stiff he is. “Fuck,” he mutters and pushes himself to his feet. He shuffles over to the bathroom and flicks on the light before he takes a leak. He washes his hands, careful to keep the bandaged wrists dry, and tries very hard to avoid looking in the mirror. But the thing is so goddamned big, it’s pretty much impossible to avoid. Clint grimaces as he takes in his battered face and ribs, then moves on; there’s not much point in dwelling on it.

He’s considering whether to put on any more clothes when he catches a faint whiff of coffee in the air. He steps out of his bedroom to see Barnes topping off the single-serving coffee cone with hot water. Stark outfitted all the apartments with fancy coffeemakers that probably cost a fortune, but Clint’s always preferred the simple cup-and-cone method. By the time he manages to get across the room, it’s finished dripping. Bucky removes the cone, splashes some cream into the mug, and slides it wordlessly across the counter to Clint.

Clint makes a happy noise in the back of his throat and lifts the mug to his face, breathing in the rich aroma. The smile he sees on Bucky’s face before he turns to start making his own cup looks close to fond.

Clint glances at Bucky’s back. He’s shed the dress shirt from the night before and is in his sleeveless white t-shirt and dress pants. “You just wake up, too?”

Bucky grunts. “Didn’t sleep well.”

Clint takes a long, scalding sip. “How come?”

Bucky shrugs. “Happens sometimes.”

Yeah, Clint knows how that goes. A minute later, Bucky’s coffee is ready and he sets the cone in the sink before leaning against the counter at a right angle from Clint. He blows on the coffee for a second and then takes his own long pull from the mug. He grunts his own pleasure.

“You didn’t have to stay.”

“Didn’t mind,” Bucky mumbles. He’s not exactly staring into his mug, it’s more like he’s still half asleep and his eyes just happened to land on the black liquid.

Clint takes another sip of his coffee and when his brain wakes up a little bit more, he finally notices the state of Bucky’s hair. He quirks a small smile. Short this way, the forces of the night are strong, and Bucky’s got bedhead like Clint’s never seen on him before. Well, half a bedhead; Bucky sleeps on his right side, so only the hair on that side is mashed all over the place.

Clint blinks and stares, startled that he so casually knows how Bucky likes to sleep. How many times must they have bunked in the same place for Clint to know that so instinctively? That thought is quickly overtaken by the realization that he finds Barnes’ bedhead sort of adorable. Without allowing himself to put any thought into it because if he does, he'll lose his courage, he reaches out and runs his fingers through Bucky’s short hair.

Bucky freezes but his eyes become bright and instantly alive as they dart to Clint. His mouth is gaping open but his mug is stalled a few inches from his chin.

Clint smiles sheepishly and withdraws his hand, shrugging a little. “It’s a good look on you.”

Bucky snaps his mouth shut and sets his coffee on the counter, then he reaches out and gently pries Clint’s from him. After he sets Clint’s down, he steps into Clint’s space, lightly pressing their body’s together.

“You still wanna know why I’m always here?” Bucky asks him, voice rough from his lack of sleep.

It strikes Clint that they’ve been on their way to this since the first time Bucky picked up an antiseptic bottle. “I think maybe I finally get it,” he says, smiling as he leans into the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is sincerely valued and treasured.
> 
> I'm @teeelsie-posts on tumblr if you want to come say hi.


End file.
